Comanche
by Riding A Tiger In Outer Space
Summary: A sequel to Sodafly's 'Sway Me Smooth'.  Jim and Sebastian head home, but play a little game in the garage.  Jim needs to make sure he wins when the situation gets away from him.  M/M
1. Chapter 1

Written as a sequel to sodafly's Sway Me Smooth, which you should go check out. /works/254707?view_adult=true

Title: Comanche, Part I of II

Warnings: PWP, next chapter.

Notes: Lots of song references, you can find em on Youtube.

Summary: Jim and Seb play a little game in the car and garage, but Jim needs to make sure that he's the winner.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, James Moriarty feels his life is a bit like <em>Pulp Fiction<em>. Without the heroin overdoses; but the rest of it is there, if you squint. No foot massages either. Unless it's Thursday and neither he nor Sebastian have anything more worthwhile to do, which is a rare occasion indeed. And tonight isn't Thursday, anyway. Besides, who would want a foot massage when their personal assassin is high off blood lust and raring to fuck? Maybe tonight isn't a _Pulp Fiction_ kind of night. Unless you count the fact that The Revels' "Comanche" is blasting from the car stereo.

"Louder!" Jim practically has to shriek, because it's close to full volume already. From the backseat he glances into the rear-view mirror, seeing his own partial reflection and an even smaller portion of Sebastian's face. Seb must be trying desperately to focus on the road, but Jim knows he keeps spying on him through the mirror, looking him over and grinning like an idiot. Sebastian obeys, and the resulting roar of saxophone is deafening. Jim sways a little, assured Seb can see him slither around in his seat and is enjoying the show.

"Comanche" is over as fast as it's begun, and The Genteels' "Take It Off" is quick to take its place, not as wild but all the more provocative with the repeated shout of, "Take it off!" with familiar surf guitars and bass and percussion. Sebastian shouts along, laughing and watching the mirror. The song is also a painfully short two minutes long, but Jim manages to pull off his suit jacket, loosen his tie, and undo a few buttons of his shirt in rhythm before the song changes again.

The Instrumentals' "Are You Nervous?" starts next, as if Sebastian had planned for a backseat strip tease when he compiled the playlist. Of course he did. They're almost back to the flat now anyway, but Jim undoes the rest of his shirt buttons for the hell of it. Less to do when they get inside. Less for him to do at least. Seb, soaked in blood and not daring to get anything nasty on Jim's expensive clothes, will stand and stare and keep his hands to himself while Jim decides to keep him waiting or give him what he wants. They've played this game countless times.

Seb switches the speakers off before they get to the garage, then pulls the car in and presses the remote to shut the garage door in silence, save for the sound of their mixed breathing. They both stare into the mirror as their chests rise and fall, waiting to see who will move first; who is more desperate to get upstairs and on the nearest surface (Jim runs through the options in his head: wall, floor, couch, table, could they make it all the way to the bed? Shower, or does he want to taste someone else's blood for the rest of the night?). Seb seems to have something entirely different in mind. He switches the stereo back on.

Next on the playlist is not surf but a slinky little jazz number: "The Big Twist" with Plas Johnson on sax. Seb finally turns to look Jim in the face, a lecherous smile forming unchecked.

"Why don't you get in front and I'll put a spotlight on your little show?" he asks, voice gravelly and _just_ right, barely audible under the music.

"I'll be needing a cigarette first. And drinks. You can't possibly expect me to do such a thing sober."

Seb shrugs, "True enough," and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels out from under his seat. He lights a cigarette for Jim and passes it back, then the whiskey once he has some for himself. They smoke and drink their way through the song, as well as Earl Palmer and King Curtis playing "One Mint Julep".

"Don't keep me waiting!" Seb implores halfway through the song when it switches to a faster rhythm and more complicated saxophone trills.

"No, no, no," Jim waves his hand dismissively, tossing back as much whiskey as he can handle, "I'm waiting for the right song. No sense in doing this wrong."

Seb drums a bit of a rhythm on the steering wheel, trying to distract himself with the liquid sex of the music since Jim is ignoring him. Jim giggles (yes, _giggles_) and kicks the back of the seat a bit, goading his impatient friend.

"I didn't say you could ignore me!" he starts, but nearly shoots out of his seat shouting, "Oh! This one, this one!" when Plas Johnson playing "Tanya" comes on. As if Seb had planned it. Of course he did.

Jim rockets out of the car and stumbles to the hood, where after a moment of steadying himself he steps back and slowly continues to undo the knot on his tie that he had started on earlier. He can't really see Seb's expression with the headlights in his eyes, but he tosses the tie onto the windshield and tugs off his already unbuttoned shirt. It isn't elegant, and it can't possibly be sexy. The whiskey is doing its work and he feels warm and hazy. He looks at his shirt uselessly for a moment, not knowing where in the garage it should go, because it is _not_ going on the floor. Somewhere under the saxophone, Sebastian is laughing. Jim dashes out of the spotlight for a moment to place his shirt on the coat peg by the door that connects the garage to the flat. While he's there he removes and hangs up his trousers for good measure.

He returns to the car just in time for Sam Butera playing "Street Scene." As the song opens with its dramatic flare, he stands in his undergarments and socks in front of a man he can't even see behind a barrier of metal and glass. That can be changed easily. Jim slinks (or he thinks he slinks) to Seb's car door. He doesn't mind if a little blood gets on his underclothes. Seb appears to be with the program, and is stepping out of the car before Jim even gets to the door. He closes it behind him just as Jim leans in for a kiss at the final, loud note of saxophone. They're both laughing so hard that it's barely a kiss at all, more like mashing their faces together while they grab at each other's hair and necks.

And of course, as if on cue the music slows down for "C'est Magnifique" a la Nelson Riddle, and Sebastian initiates what Jim assumes to be an attempt at a slow dance. Back at the lounge, he had been so ready to rush home and fuck, but the alcohol and the music seems to have tamed him somehow, made him genial and affectionate. Jim feels out of place, swaying half naked against a blood-caked killer, and realizes that he's losing control of the situation.

Their foreheads are pressed together and Seb's eyes are closed, and it's almost romantic. But Jim Moriarty doesn't want to be romanced right now, he just _wants_, and Sebastian seems like he's half asleep standing. So Jim presses in closer, standing on his toes to put his mouth to Sebastian's ear. He can smell the blood and his eyes nearly roll back into his head. He knows just what to say to get his pet back in line.

He moans, "Seeing you work with that nail and hammer earlier, my _god_, it was like watching an artist. Or porn. I think I might have bitten through my finger if you went on any longer."

And that's all it takes; the game is his again.

"In the car or on the car?" Seb growls, his hands lowering to Jim's hips and gripping hard.

"No," Jim replies, determined, "No, that won't do. That's giving me the option to either ruin the upholstery or ruin the paint job, neither of which I'm particularly eager to destroy."

Seb grunts, annoyed. Right where he wants him. Check.

Jim places a palm on Seb's cheek and offers a placating smile, "Tell you what, we'll get a second car and do that next time. Right now, however, I think I want you to clean up."

* * *

><p>There will be another chapter, nary you worry.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Jim's voice is ill equipped to do an accurate impression of Tom Waits' run-over-with-a-car growl, but he still sings along while drumming his fingers on his thigh, sitting on the couch and wondering at what record breaking speed Sebastian will shower this time around.

"There's a leak, there's a leak in the boiler room, the poor, the lame, the blind! Who are the ones that we kept in charge? Killers, thieves and lawyers!" he mumbles under the music, enjoying its sleazy sadistic sound. Halfway through the song, Seb is still in the shower. To be fair, it's only been a minute and half since he trudged off to obey orders and Jim made himself comfortable, but a minute and a half can seem like forever when the night is looking long. They could be fucked out and sleeping by now, but that would mean that Jim had forfeited the game, so he sits alone and waits.

"Three minutes," Jim remarks when Seb finally emerges, one towel around his waist and the other being used to absorb some of the wet from his hair, "You seem a bit over dressed for the occasion."

"I could say the same to you," Seb counters, tossing one damp towel in Jim's direction. The one he had been using to dry his hair.

"Wrong towel."

"Says the man who wouldn't let me fuck him into the hood of the car."

"Says the man who decided he wanted a strip tease and a slow dance instead of doing something interesting."

"Touché."

"Naturally."

Again they begin to stare each other down, as if anyone but Jim ever wins the nightly tête-à-tête. Even when Sebastian gets things exactly as he wants them from start to finish, it is only because Jim allows it or Jim is too disinterested to fully participate. It doesn't stop Seb from trying, though. A fault that will probably be the death of him one day; Jim will appreciate the quality while it lasts.

"You should take a seat," Jim decides, indicating one of the chairs across from the couch, "But do _not_ under _any_ circumstances put your bare arse on my furniture."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Seb answers as he sits.

"Do you dream at all?" Jim says quietly as he stands, idly twisting the towel between his fingers.

"Not since I met you."

"Typical."

Jim cracks the towel against Sebastian's knees to see how much he'll react just as the room fills with the sound of trumpets and saxophone with the intro of Ella Fitzgerald's version of "Whatever Lola Wants." He doesn't even wince. With surprising ease, Jim begins to tear the towel into long strips of cloth, and Seb watches intently as each strip is used to bind his limbs to the chair. He pulls his tie from the pile of his clothes on the couch and uses it as a finishing touch to blindfold Sebastian, then steps away to observe his work.

"Cozy?" Jim asks as he straddles Seb's lap, but kisses him before he can answer, if he had been planning on answering at all. A satisfied sigh dies somewhere in the back of Seb's throat when Jim shifts down, the cloth of a towel and Jim's boxer briefs still between them. He continues kissing and grinding for some time, until Seb doesn't even care what song is on anymore, and even then it's never quite enough. Seb wants to grab him and drag him down and not let him back up again, but his hands are tied and he won't break those bonds unless Jim gives him permission.

"Is that all it takes for you to surrender?" Jim asks breathily near his ear, continuing to tease, "A few wet rags and someone sitting on your lap?" Again he kisses Sebastian before he can come up with a response, but pulls away all too soon, "Well, can't say that this is much of a turn on for me. Pity. I'll be off. See you in the morning."

Sebastion isn't one hundred percent sure whether or not Jim is joking until the music is turned off, the lights are out, and Jim has left the room, Seb still tied to the chair and blindfolded. This wouldn't be the first time that Jim has left him bound by himself. He likes to time it, to see how long he takes to struggle free and come after him. There are all sorts of fun hiding places in the flat, and Jim will be in one of them by the time Seb can come looking.

Two minutes and eleven seconds later, Sebastian stands, stretches, and begins to prowl naked through the dark for his prey. Sometimes, Jim will go somewhere incredibly obvious like the kitchen or one of the bedrooms (one for Sebastian, which Jim spends a lot of time in, one for Jim, which Sebastian spends a lot of time in, and a "Guest Room" for guests who either don't exist or soon won't exist. The bedding, wallpaper, and carpeting in that room was all dark and easy to clean). A few times he just sat on the couch and touched himself while he watched Sebastian slip out of ropes or chains or fabric. On even fewer occasions he would be somewhere across town in a motel. And on one singular evening he took a cab to the airport and got on the next leaving flight; luckily, Sebastian was on the same plane and they ran into each other in the toilet. Afterward, Jim had gone on for days about being members of the mile high club. For a few unfortunate suckers, it was probably the last sentence they heard before death.

But in the two minutes and eleven seconds it took tonight, Seb hasn't heard any of the exits opening or closing, nor did he hear any windows, so Jim is still somewhere in the flat. Jim's closet is out of the question, unless he intends to find a reason to buy new clothes. Sebastian stalks from room to room, throwing open closets and pantries and crawl spaces to no avail. Eventually, the only room he hasn't checked is the generally unspoken of guest room, and by that point he wonders if perhaps Jim has in fact managed to sneak away and catch a flight.

As he nears the door he knows that Jim must be there. He can smell Jim's cologne, but he can also smell the faint addition of something else, something equally familiar, and remembers from his search that his bloodied clothes had gone missing from the floor by the shower. That, and Jim's pants are hanging from the doorknob. Classy.

Even the light from the hallway is killed when it enters the room. The closet, the narrowest one in the flat, has to, _needs_ to, be where Jim is waiting. Sebastian closes the door behind him, and with one arm stretched out in front, searches for the door of the closet, listening for even the faintest sound that Jim might make. He hears nothing but the sound of his heart thudding in his ears, and the creak of the closet door when he finds it and slowly pulls it open. Still no sound, and he can see nothing in the black space. But his outstretched hand finds something, something warm that twitches at the light contact of skin to skin.

Seb immediately crowds up against him, closing the closet door behind him so they are cramped in the space. His hands fly everywhere, trying to feel out what he has found. Jim is naked save for an unbuttoned shirt that is now crusted with blood that belongs to neither of them; Sebastian's shirt. His arms are above this head, bound with Seb's tie to the rack that has no clothes hanging from it. Jim has always had a particular talent for tying himself up well.

Sebastian shoves him up against the wall and pulls Jim's legs around his waist, gladly gasping, feeling the touch he needs at long last. He tilts in to kiss Jim, but instead presses his lips to a thick piece of tape over Jim's mouth.

"What's this for?" he says as his rips the tape away, not sparing a moment to cover Jim's response with his mouth before letting him answer.

Jim loudly sucks in a breath through his mouth before he speaks, "Because you would have found me too easily if I didn't. All of the _noises_ I would have been making. It would be indecent."

Seb's hand dips to Jim's arse and he realizes why Jim would have been making a racket. And he still found the time to tie himself up afterward.

"Naughty," Seb replies, and from that point neither has anything else to say.

Sebastian doesn't spare a moment for comfort or convenience, they've both been drawing this out for far too long tonight, and shoves himself into Jim's arse in one thrust. Jim howls, half from anticipation and half from pain. Seb is without mercy, shoving himself in again and again at such a grueling pace that Jim's head smacks against the wall repeatedly. Jim makes the most obscene sounds, and at this point Seb doesn't care whether he's exaggerating or not, gripping Jim's hips, digging in his fingernails until he can feel drops of blood begin to well up. He runs sloppy kisses up and down Jim's soft neck, biting only at his collarbone and shoulder where the marks won't show.

The space that is barely large enough to accommodate the two of them is soon unbearably hot, and Sebastian's legs scream with the strain of keeping Jim is his position up against the wall, but he's _so close_ and thinks he might die if he slows down even a little. Jim has screamed himself out and is no longer making any sounds aside from a few low whimpers as his muscles spasm in warning for his inevitable climax.

Somehow, Jim rasps, "It's – ah – embarrassing, how much I _crave_ – Sebastian! – this whenever I see you get all bloodied up for me. Ah!"

Jim lurches forward as he comes between them, his movement limited by his restraints and by Sebastian pounding him back against the wall, throwing himself over the edge as Jim tightens around him, barking something unintelligible. He presses his forehead to Jim's shoulder as he rides out his orgasm, legs shaking. When finished, he tries to pull himself away, but Jim's legs remain wrapped around him. He reaches up and unties Jim's hands from the clothing rack, and Jim's arms fall heavily around Seb's neck, his entire body sagging against him, spent and exhausted. Seb isn't even sure if Jim is still awake.

As if he was mind reading, Jim grumbles into Seb's neck, "Bath. Please. I feel so fucking filthy."

Sebastian obliges, carrying him to the master bath, and stretching out with him in a tub that could comfortably fit three people as warm water rises around their still entangled bodies. Neither make an effort to actually bathe, content to remain motionless and soak. Seb hopes that Jim cannot see him smiling, but Jim seems to be half asleep sprawled on his chest anyway. He enjoys what he does with Jim whether it's killing or fucking or driving the goddamn car, but he secretly loves moments like this best, when Jim doesn't resist affection and simple touches. When he stays still and breathes slowly while Seb's hand strokes the back of his hair.

This keeps happening, and Jim doesn't know what to make of it.


End file.
